


Hung Round his Neck like a Rope made of Stars

by what_about_the_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Domestic violence (past), Fate & Destiny, Feelings, Friendship, Love, M/M, Sickness, timelines? I don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish/pseuds/what_about_the_fish
Summary: People say that destiny is something thrust onto you, when it happens a great energy runs through you, over you and something akin to a glow lights your way. People say destiny is a fickle mistress not to be ignored, not even for a moment, that life is no longer yours when destiny gets her claws in you.Jaskier has long known that people are fools. Collectively, stupidity runs deep, has done since people decided to group together and, well, people. On an individual basis the stupidity does seem to vary but as a general rule it’s safer to take everyone as a fool and be proven otherwise.Jaskier is also terrible at following rules.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 32
Kudos: 97
Collections: The Best Fics I've Read, The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #003





	Hung Round his Neck like a Rope made of Stars

People say that destiny is something thrust onto you, when it happens, a great energy runs through you, over you and something akin to a glow lights your way. People say destiny is a fickle mistress not to be ignored, not even for a moment, that life is no longer yours when destiny gets her claws in you.

Jaskier has long known that people are fools. Collectively, stupidity runs deep, has done since people decided to group together and, well, people. On an individual basis the stupidity does seem to vary but as a general rule it’s safer to take everyone as a fool and be proven otherwise. 

Jaskier is also terrible at following rules.

It’s a late summer eve, the sun is only just setting and the inn he is playing at is filling with farmers and labourers, dust covered and weary from bringing in the harvest. Jaskier always ponders the human capacity to work all day and still find time for drink and companionship. When the days are long and the nights short, even then people will use their precious hours of rest to indulge.

But purses are full with summer bounty and he has oh so many songs to share this eve, he will never begrudge a receptive audience. The evening, it seems, has more opportunity than his usual performances. One group of farmers collectively agreeing that he should come and play while they gathered crops tomorrow. 

Jaskier, never one to say no to a show, even one spent in the hot dusty fields, besides the coin is good and lunch and ale are part of the deal. 

So perhaps at day break when Jaskier opens his crusted eyes, a piece of bread stuck to his forehead where he fell asleep at his desk - at least he made it to his room - and he’s unsure if the banging is in his head or at the door, Jaskier starts to have small regrets about working in the fields. 

And yes that banging is at the door. 

“Coming” he calls out, peeling the bread from his face and taking a bite - hell maybe it will settle his stomach, _gods_ who was buying him ales last night. Jaskier wished to curse him right about now.

He opens the door and a young lad is standing there looking altogether too perky for this hour.

“Master Jaskier, father sent me to bring you to the fields. I - ah should I come back, master bard sir?” The young fellow seems unable to settle on a honorific, Jaskier would laugh if he didn’t think he’d lose his stomach contents if he did.

“Jaskier, just Jaskier please. Give me 5 minutes and i’ll be down.” He thinks a moment as he turns from the door and then flicks a coin to the boy. “Grab some breakfast for me, a warm cider and something for yourself would you?”

“Right you are, Mast - Jaskier.” The boy calls out as he runs with that youthful exuberance down to the kitchens.

It’s more like fifteen minutes by the time Jaskier stumbles down the stairs, mostly scrubbed clean and dressed, lute strapped across his back. The innkeep’s wife, _bless her_ , has put food and a flask into a basket, with threat of dismembering if it’s not returned, but full with fresh bread, meats and hair of the dog.

The boy’s face is littered with the crumbs of a pastry, Jaskier catches sight of them before they are wiped away with the sleeve of a shirt.

“If you’re ready we should be going.” The boy is eager if not carrying an undercurrent of nerves. Obviously not used to giving orders to his elders. Jaskier plasters on a smile - let no one say he is anything but a performer - and with a sweep of his arm bids the lad lead the way.

He fumbles for the flask before the boy gets too far ahead and downs half the contents in one go, soothing his parched throat and pushing the bile away. By the time they reach the field Jaskier has finished the cider, and munched his way through half a loaf of bread. He’s feeling practically human again, the cool morning air doing wonders to his headache.

No matter how Jaskier feels, you put a lute in his hand and the rest of the world falls away. So once he’s belted out a couple of jigs, music with a repetitive beats and popular chorus’ that have the workers moving to the rhythm and joining in when they catch the words. Lunch comes around sooner than Jaskier would have expected and he’s grateful for the ale thrust into his hands, throat parched from use, now. His body hums with the warmth of the day.

While he’s digging into the hearty pie the wives brought out to them for lunch, Jaskier toed at the dirt where he was sitting. He was composing songs of harvest, fertile soils and bounty crops when his foot jarred on something just under the soils surface. Pie temporarily forgotten in lue of hidden treasure, he pushed dirt aside with his hands, fingers glancing over something cool and metal?

He got a better hold and janked, at first it didn’t budge, he tightened his grip, got to his feet and put some back into it. He landed on his ass, face full of dirt and a cheer coming from the men around him. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, dipping into a quick bow as the men laughed. It wasn’t until he sat down again that he focused on what was in his hand. 

Hanging from a long chain was a key, old but not rusted, ornate and heavy, iron perhaps. He was pushing the dirt away from the handle when the men whistled for his attention, work was starting up and he was needed again.

Jaskier waved his confirmation rolling his shoulders and slipping the curious find over his head to hang heavy and warm against his skin beneath his doublet. With a little skip he followed the men back out to the fields and played away the rest of the day.

~~~~~

He was sure rage shouldn’t be the only thing to fuel you. It had always been rage and a desire to prove everyone wrong that kept him going. Some might say it was sheer bloody mindedness and maybe they were right. All Lambert knew was he didn’t feel the way others did. 

He blamed the witcher’s for the way he was, he blamed his father and most of all he blamed himself. He was broken, always had been, given away to be experimented on and came out the other side fucked up. Even Geralt, with his white hair and extra mutations had a better grasp of his emotions and that dude gave the emotionally constipated a bad name.

A fuck up for life, until life made him a killer - a fuck up with a sword then. People called him an asshole, he didn’t argue with that. Over the years he saw how his brother’s were together, how they had lover’s and bonds that went beyond brotherhood. But after the purge it turned out he was the one who could survive. And maybe being cut off from that part of him was what kept him going when others faded away.

What was that about sheer bloody mindedness again?

~~~~~

Jaskier was somewhere in Upper Posada when he met the witcher. Call it destiny, _dammit_ , call him a fool because he was jumping into this adventure with both feet. The White Wolf - his very own muse - he could practically smell the destiny on the air - or was that just onion? _No_. Destiny made a much better song.

And perhaps it was destiny, the way Jaskier and Geralt’s paths crossed over the years. Almost as if there was a magnet pulling them towards each other. It wasn’t until Jaskier smelt true destiny on the air at the Cintran court that Jaskier gave the fantasy of a force pushing him towards Geralt away, fading from his mind. 

The real smell of destiny was steeped in the metallic tang of magic and ozone, the air indeed sparked with it’s unravelling before it snapped into place tying two souls together. Jaskier had never felt that, not once on his journey with Geralt. 

Another one for the storybook.

~~~~~~~

Jaskier has journeyed with Geralt on and off for some fifteen years, a life filled with road dirt and adventure. Jaskier still chased the threads of destiny in his songs, following on the tail of his best friend as the knots tightened around Geralt. 

In all these adventures Jaskier has kept the key he found that day in the field. It becomes a talisman of sorts, a charm of luck, was it not only days before he first met Geralt that Jaskier had discovered it, after all. 

Geralt added fuel to his belief in the key’s talents when he mentions how it makes his medallion vibrate. He also notices Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with interest, and like the dick he is, decides to only let Jaskier know it’s not dangerous and leave it at that. Jaskier doesn’t think Geralt knows what it is, but he’d never admit that out loud. 

Jaskier has not seen his friend since summer’s end, now winter is coming hot on autumn's heels and Jaskier thought that perhaps his journey may end here, on the side of a mud frozen road, wracked with shivers and a raging fever. He should never have left the last tavern, the villagers warned of a storm on the winds.

Jaskier had, _well_ , been Jaskier, and let the call of the road pull him, he was so sure he could get back to Oxenfurt before the weather changed for good. His cloak woefully inadequate for the winter winds, he’d been travelling without shelter far longer than he should have, the aches settling deep in his bones for days before he was taken by fever. 

The roads are completely deserted, jaskier’s heat spiked brain can’t work out which direction would lead him to a town, so when the shaking gets too much he falls to his knees and prays. He calls to any god that would listen, he just needs one small favour and he’d be forever in their debt. 

His hand drifts to the key, the familiar weight bringing small comforts, if Jaskier hadn’t been so fever sick he would have laughed at his actions then. His hand clasped around the key he whispers “Dear heart, save me.” 

~~~~~~~

Jaskier can’t say what happens next, his memory is foggy at best. He has moments of clarity, being plastered to the back of a horse, holding tight, hands in the mane trying to get warm. The gruff, distinctly male voice that doesn’t seem to have a beginning or end. And then blessed blackness.

~~~~~~

If pressed Lambert couldn’t tell you why he helped the man. He’d taken a different route on his way back to Kaer Morhen, and of fucking course, it had been struck with a early winter storm. He was fucking miserable, and he hadn’t even reached the path up the mountain. 

He smelt him first, fever tinged the air with it’s sweet stench, a man in too few layers was huddled in the ditch beside the road.

Lambert pushed his horse on not three steps before he was dismounting and going back. The man muttered under his breath but Lambert couldn’t make out any sense from him. He caught a few words, _destiny, heart,_ but he couldn’t be sure. 

He thought to take the man onto the next town, Lambert bundled him in extra blankets and balanced the man on his horse. Strapping his pack and lute to the saddle. It wasn’t until he was already half a day up the pass did he realise he never made it to the town. Bringing a stranger to Kaer Morhen was monumentally stupid even by Lambert’s standards. Still, he kept going.

Geralt and Vesemir were waiting at the gates when he arrived. The man was still atop his horse, the fever hadn’t yet broken, he was barely clinging to life. Lambert raised a hand in greeting, when he saw the expression in Geralt’s eyes shift seconds before he came sprinting at him.

“Jaskier! How?” Geralt shouted while he pulled the man, Jaskier, from Lambert’s horse. 

The full force of the White Wolf’s stare bore into him, he could only shrug.

“Found him at the base of the pass.” He grunted by way of explanation.

Geralt swore before taking off into the keep with his bard. Lambert didn’t take much notice at the rage swelling in his chest. What’s new. He did take note when it didn’t simmer down once his horse was stabled and he was removing his armour in his room.

The rage tugged at him, it had no direction, no real origin yet as the days went by and Jaskier remained sick it continued to eat at him. Lambert found himself pacing outside of Jaskier’s room while Vesemir gave him potions and healing herbs. Geralt held a constant vigil at his bedside, the errant thoughts that it should be him sitting there, pushed aside.

At night Lambert was plagued with dreams, he’d call them nightmares by the way he woke in a cold sweat however the contents were more enigma than horror. Nothing made sense until the fifth night.

~~~~~~

Lambert was just a child again, huddled in a corner of his childhood bedroom. Shouting and sounds of pain came from below, his father drunk earlier than usual or maybe still drunk from the night before, had he even come home? The man was beating Lambert’s mother, the wet sounds of tears and broken skin echoed in his ears.

He tried to hold the tears back, his whimpers to himself, he wished for his father to tire while hitting his mother so he wouldn’t come up the stairs to find him. He hated himself for it. He buried his head in his knees and covered his ears trying to make himself small when he heard people screaming from all around.

His head shot up to find the world pitched to dark. The sun snuffed out in a blink. The air felt different in that moment, like the world had held its breath. Perhaps he believed in magic in that moment or perhaps he was just a scared child, but he whispered a wish to the world in that silent space.

Lambert wished that his heart be kept safe. He wished to never be caught with someone like his father who would only break it bit by bit until it crumbled to ash. He wished that only his true love might hold it safe, keep it safe for him. 

In the dream Lambert watched the wish fly from his mouth like a feather on the wind, it floated out the window and away into the world. Lambert felt it then, both in the past and the now, he felt the moment his heart drifted away.

He woke to a darkened room, his door swinging open and a blue glow coming from the corridor.

~~~~~~

Jaskier came around in a strange room, bundled in blankets and furs and his body aching. It was dark, the banked fire casting the room in an orange glow. He looked around, shocked when he saw Geralt asleep in a chair. He went to reach out when he noticed what had woken him. Against his skin beneath all the covers something was getting very hot.

Jaskier pushed at the blankets, and shuffled his aching limbs until he sitting up and staring at his chest. 

His key was glowing blue and radiating a heat that seared his skin, scrambling from the bed, Jaskier held the key feeling it pull him. _I was right_ he thought absently as he walked from the room into the cold hall. He followed the key as it led him up stairs and down halls until he was facing a door. Jaskier heard movement on the other side as he reached out and pushed the door open.

The man stepped towards Jaskier and the key vibrated in his hand. He was transfixed on his face, hard hair, sharp features, and those lips. A witcher to be sure, gold eyes glowing in the light, the light is brighter now, which had Jaskier breaking his gaze to look down. Where his key glowed blue, beneath this man’s sleep shirt a red light pulsed.

The man followed Jaskier’s gaze, a sharp inhale falling from his lips as he lifted his shirt with shaking hands. His bare chest revealed a keyhole right above his heart, the man ran his fingers over it and shivered.

Jaskier felt it then, the snap of a thousand threads untangled for the first time in his life, his tie to destiny finally letting go. “Dear heart.” He whispers.

“You found it.” The man replies, awe in his voice.

“I think I did.” Jaskier replies, his free hand coming up to lay over the man's hand resting on his chest. “I believe this is yours - ah,” he lifts the man's hand, then stumbles when he realises he doesn’t know his name.

“Lambert,” The man whispers in return.

Jaskier take’s Lambert’s hand and kisses it, threading their fingers together, “I believe this is yours, Lambert.” 

Lambert nobs, taking his other hand and guiding the key in Jaskier’s grasp to the keyhole.

The key slips in, turns and tumblers rumble until the mechanism gives, then both key and hole disappear with a flash of purple light.

~~~~~

Lambert doesn’t want to move, save he break the moment, the magic cruelly falling apart in his hands. It’s Jaskier that’s the one to break it, and nothing changes. His chest is normal again, his heart still beats as it did before. 

His shoulders roll forward, resignation and sadness flood through him. But Jaskier is staring at him, he can’t place the look but it bores into him with every unflinching second. Lambert falls to his knees with the shock of it, because that look, everything was in that look. A tidal wave of emotion hits him and for a moment he thinks he might drown, but then Jaskier’s hand is on his cheek and his lips are at his mouth.

Lambert falls into those touches holding onto Jaskier with everything he has, he doesn’t realise he’s sobbing until Jaskier is kissing the tears from his face. He knows for sure now that this man has brought him his heart and he knows that this man will hold it safe for the rest of his life. He feels it in his bones as the pieces that were always missing slowly start falling into place.

“The song’s I will sing of this, Dear heart.” Jaskier says between kisses.

This makes Lambert laugh, a real belly laugh, and damn ain't that something new. He pulls Jaskier to him, a smile on his lips and whispers his thanks into his skin. 


End file.
